Murder Mystery Report, October 2004

By Robison Wells

As has been advertised on this site for several months (you can read the advertisement here), Covenant Communications held its first semi-annual Mystery Dinner last week.

The basic idea was this: they took about eight or nine authors (I’m too lazy to check exactly how many) and had them select a few characters from their recent books (all of which happened to be mysteries). Then, using all of those characters, an immense story was woven together into a massive murder mystery. Similar to How-To-Host-A-Murder, each dinner guest took upon themselves one of the characters, and then tried to solve the big mystery, in pursuit of prizes and fame.

The event was held down in Utah County, which caused me to have to leave work early and sit in traffic jams for a very long time. When I reached the Friendship Center (which is a humorous name even when you don’t realize the place is located in the so-called “Happy Valley”), I was surprised to see that, despite my late arrival, there would still be plenty of opportunity to set the tables. So I did, and tried really hard to put the spoons on the right sides of the plates. And, I’ll have you know, the management never received a single complaint about spoon placement. That’s the kind of detail-oriented person I am.

I also had to stuff a dummy–the body of the murder victim. I had a pair of pants and a shirt and a pair of shoes, which, astute readers will instantly recognize, does not a dead body make. Apparently, this poor soul was the victim of a particularly heinous crime, wherein he lost both his head and hands. Not the kind of family-friendly entertainment you’d expect from Covenant, is it? What’s even more bothersome, is that the story describes how the victim was shot. That must have been quite the bullet.

Anyway, while stuffing the body I met Michele Ashman Bell, who seemed shocked to learn that I wasn’t older, and who referred to me as both a “punk kid” and a “pretentious neophyte”. Okay, so I made that up.

Soon, however, I met other authors. Michele introduced me to Sian Bessey, who was quite polite, and who had a great accent. (Whenever I meet Europeans, I always assume that they listen to the way we Americans talk and shake their heads in disgust. I didn’t see this, of course, because she was so polite, but I’m sure she did it. If I was European, I would. Stupid Americans.)

And I met Betsy Brannon Green, who I had actually met once before, and I stumbled over her name. It’s hard to know someone by their full name, but only call them by their first name. I walked up to her and said “Hi Betsy Brannon...” I caught myself before I said Green, but I think the damage was already done. I told her that I’d met her before (we’d been double-booked at a signing once) and she kind of nodded in a polite Southern way (she being a polite Southerner), but had no idea who I was. (Eventually, she remembered. The fact of the matter is that she was too busy signing stacks of books to notice me at that signing, and I was so not busy signing books that I had nothing else to do but notice her and her long line of fans. And the guy who came to film her.)

And sooner or later Kerry Blair showed up, and gave me a dirty look or something. I don’t know – I wasn’t really paying attention. After several minutes of unnatural silence and a roomful of tension, I finally offered the peace pipe. She frowned as she shook my hand, and told me to stay out of her turf. I nodded sheepishly, thoroughly intimidated, and scurried away.

I also met Jennie Hansen, who, you’ll remember, gave a glowing review of On Second Thought in Meridian Magazine. I was awed by her presence, and haven’t washed my hand since it shook hers. (Not that I wash my hands all that much anyway.)

Michael Hunter and Clair Poulson were also there, though I had very little interaction with either of them. I shook their hands (careful not to smudge the imprint left by Jennie’s holy touch) and we chatted very briefly. What does it say about me that I hung out with all the female authors and ignored the males? I don’t know, but I’ll ask you not to speculate.

And then Amy Wadsworth wandered in, fashionably late. She blamed it on the traffic, but that hardly seemed like a good excuse. After all, I had to come through the same traffic, and was I late? I think not. To further exacerbate the rift between myself and Amy, her husband and her spent the evening silently rooting for the U of U to beat New Mexico in the Friday night football game. (Yes, I know I am a graduate of the U of U, and that I’m currently enrolled there, but that doesn’t mean that I root for them. I mean, really. A man is nothing without his principles.)

So, you’re asking, am I ever going to talk about the actual dinner? Yes. Right after I talk about Melissa Stockdale.

Melissa is my publicist, which I say simply because it makes me sound neat, but she’s also the publicist of every other author at Covenant. The head honcho marketing guru at Covenant is a cowboy-hat-wearing fella by the name of Robby Nichols who, they say, is the best in the business. But his budding prodigy, and an experienced spin-doctor in her own right, is Melissa Stockdale. It was she who organized the big event, and it was she who appeared, for most of the evening, as though she were about to suffer an aneurism and die. Putting together a 125+ person event, complete with dinner and murder mystery, is quite a stressful job, apparently.

Anyway, Melissa began the evening by setting the ground rules: basically, if someone asks you a question, you have to tell the truth. Unless you’re the murderer, in which case you can lie, lie, lie, and get thrust down to hell. I guess the reasoning here is that the murderer is already murdering someone, so they might was well go whole hog in the sin department.

And then a shot was fired, which sounded suspiciously like a balloon popping (because it was). I, being in the character of Clint Rollins, dude ranch owner and conspiracy-theorist, jumped up and ran to the library (the hallway). I believe I yelled something along the lines of “What was that?”, although I don’t remember, what with the excitement and commotion of it all.

And then the game began in earnest. Half of the room was offered dinner (the half I was not in), and the other half was told to wait their stinking turn. My mother, being diabetic, went and got food when it wasn’t her turn. I can’t blame her, but I imagine that the rest of my table did, as she ate while they sat, foodless.

You see, I wasn’t given the opportunity to sit idly by and watch her eat and wish that I was eating. Oh no, my friend, because I was far too busy wandering around the room interrogating people. I wandered from table to table and talked to people about why they had cause to murder the deceased, and whether they owned a gun, and whether they happened to be in the library at the time of the shooting.

Let me interrupt for a minute to tell you one of the wackiest parts about this whole event. The murder victim was none other than Robison E. Wells, acclaimed LDS author. (This might get confusing.) I was not the victim – I was playing the character of Clint Rollins. But the story was about how acclaimed LDS author Robison Wells was murdered. The only person at the event who was playing herself was my lovely wife, playing the part of Robison Wells’ lovely wife.

The gist of all of this, is that I spent the entire evening listening to all the reasons that people wanted me dead. As Clint Rollins, I wanted to see that no-good-son-of-a-dead-pan-shoe-fittin’-fire-starter dead because of a business deal that had gone sour. Other people had other reasons. My mother, playing the part of Xavier Star, Robison Wells’ ex-wife (weirded out yet?) wanted to kill me because I had divorced her. I got the idea fairly quickly that Robison Wells owed a lot of people money and was quite the philanderer. Well, I can assure you that in real life, only one of those statements is true. (The fact that I live in a cinder block apartment wherein my only living room furniture are collapsible camp chairs probably gives you a good indication of which statement is accurate. Also: I currently do not own a belt.)

But anyway. So I wandered for what seemed like hours (it was actually two) and chatted with as many people as I could, and generally had a wonderful time. My main suspect for most of the evening was Winfrow the butler, played by pianist extraordinaire Marshall McDonald. My suspicions were based on these facts: he had a come-and-go French accent–indicating that he obviously was a phony of some sort–and that he seemed to be quick to pass the blame onto other people.

One of the people that he directed me to was Prince Harold, who was my final vote as murderer. My basis for this was completely unfounded, and I guessed it simply because I thought that he was too conspicuous of a character to not be the murderer. (This is why I’m not a cop. Someone would die, and I would arrest the Pope.)

(On an unrelated note, Prince Harold had a certain Princess Hara on his arm for most of the evening. I don’t know whether she was on his arm in character, or on his arm because they're an “item” in real life. I guess I’ll never know. But here’s the story: I was trying to interrogate two particularly wily villains in the back of the room, and they were evading my questions quite deftly. The lovely Princess Hara was singing in the background, accompanied by the butler/pianist Winfrow/Marshall McDonald, so the room was pretty noisy, and I had to do my best to make my questions heard above the melodic tones of royal singing. Anyway, after me bugging these two people, who kept implying I ought to go interrogate other people, the woman finally said: “In real life, Princess Hara is my daughter.” So, they’d been trying to listen to the song, and I was bothering the heck out of them. So, if you’re reading, sorry.)

Anyway, the event finally wound down, and the murderer was exposed, and, you guessed it, it was Peter Jenkins. Who is Peter Jenkins, you ask? And why did he kill acclaimed LDS author Robison Wells? Sadly, these questions will go unanswered, because I wasn’t paying attention when Peter spilled his guts. I was too busy saying “Whaaa?”

See, I’d interrogated Peter (superbly played by Scott, son of Kerry Blair). I’d gone into the interrogation fairly certain that he was the killer. I believe the phrase I used was “It seems all roads lead to you.” But he was so clever, so conniving, such a good liar, that I instantly forgave him of any assumed wrong doing, and gave him permission to marry my daughter. But he was the killer, and I don’t even know why he did it. Something about a tiger, I gather.

Anyway, prizes were handed out to people with the best costume, and the people who were the best actors, and the person who guessed the murderer. I got nothing except a big bowlful of slander, and fear and suspicion of everyone I meet.

So, Melissa (who did not die) says that these dinners are going to be regular events. I would encourage all to attend, because a good time was had by all. At the next dinner, though, I’m going to shoot first and ask questions later.